Grace Under Fire (3 page)

Grace folded her trembling hands in her lap while she perched stiffly on the high-backed chair in which the footman had directed her to sit while awaiting her hostess. If her stomach had not been tied in knots of anxiety and anticipation, she might have found more appreciation for the elegant appointments of Lady Aberdeen’s formal sitting room. But rather than admiring the curved arch of the fireplace with its intricately carved floral motif or the sumptuous furniture upholstered in stripes of royal blue velvet alternated with red-and-gold brocades, Grace’s attention was entirely occupied in wondering where Colin and Atticus might be hiding. And when they would appear.

She had worn her favorite gown for the occasion, knowing the buttercup-yellow silk especially flattered her coloring. It was, of course, far too formal a gown for an afternoon engagement; her mother had argued strenuously in favor of a pale green muslin day dress with tiny embroidered pink flowers for the occasion, but Grace stood her ground. She wanted to look her best for her men.

Her men
. Dear Lord, did she already think of them as such? She had not even decided she would accept their outlandish proposal. In fact, she was quite certain she should not.

And yet, she had to see them. Speak with them.

Touch them
.

“I see you’ve made yourself at home, my dear.”

Grace startled so violently at the bright sound of Lady Aberdeen’s voice pealing through the silence, it was all she could do to maintain her precarious seat on the chair.

“Yes, my lady, thank you,” she answered, starting to her feet to give her hostess a proper curtsy in greeting.

Lady Aberdeen, clad in a dark blue frock trimmed with ivory lace, her graying brown hair covered with an ivory cap with matching blue trim, waved her hand. “Oh, no, don’t get up. I think we can dispense with the formalities under the circumstances, don’t you?”

Biting her lip, Grace nodded and settled back onto her chair. The circumstances were certainly extraordinary. Her cheeks heated as it dawned on her that this august matron probably had a very good idea of what had transpired in that retiring room. How mortifying!

In a rustle of skirts and petticoats, the countess seated herself on the settee, her posture erect and dignified as the queen’s. “I imagine you have a few questions.”

When Grace nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak without revealing much more than she ought or asking the question that plagued her the most, Lady Aberdeen continued, “Very well. First, you probably want to know why I lied on your behalf.”

“Yes, very much,” Grace affirmed, her voice cracking a bit from disuse and nerves.

“And the answer is, because I could.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“Young ladies should not have their futures determined for them simply because they make a single error in judgment.” A wistful smile softened the older woman’s sharp gray eyes. “Once upon a time, when I was about your age, I made a mistake. A mistake that decided my marriage…and my future.”

Grace’s jaw became ever so slightly unhinged. “But surely you cannot be unhappy. You are well-respected and well-liked.”

The countess shook her head. “No, I am not unhappy. Not now. But it took me some time to come around to that point of view, for you see, my indiscretion didn’t lead to my marrying the man I believed I wanted, but the one I sought to avoid.”

“You did not wish to marry the earl?”

“I’m afraid not,” the older woman said with a chuckle. “At the time, I was enamored of a young ne’er-do-well pianist and composer of whom my parents thoroughly disapproved. When I was caught sneaking off with him one night, my parents, horrified and concerned for my future, quickly arranged my marriage to Aberdeen, who was willing to have me despite the possibility that I might be ‘soiled goods.’ And although I eventually came to esteem my husband and appreciate my life as a countess, I often wonder what might have happened had I managed to escape with the man I loved. There is more to life, you see, than respectability.”

Grace tried to sort through the countess’s seemingly circular reasoning. “So, you were trying to save me
from
Lord Fitzgerald and Mr. Stilwell, and yet you are not happy that you were saved? I’m afraid I don’t quite follow.”

“One benefit of being a person of advancing years, my dear, is that one is rarely required to make sense. However, it was not my intent to save you from happiness, but rather to give you the opportunity to decide where your best chance of happiness lies. And that can only happen if you are free to choose without the stigma of a compromise hanging over your head.”

Grace’s eyes widened with comprehension. And gratitude. Yet, something still puzzled her.

“Col—that is, Lord Fitzgerald. You must know him.”

“Rather well, in fact,” the countess confirmed. “Few people know it, but Viscount Fitzgerald is my first cousin’s son. After his parents died, he and Atticus…but here, they can tell you about that themselves.”

Lady Aberdeen looked away from Grace, and she followed the line of her hostess’s gaze. Any remaining questions she had died on her lips. Her mouth dried, and her stomach dropped into her slippers.

For there in the doorway stood Colin and Atticus.

She knew right then from the way they looked at her, their handsome features so dissimilar in construction yet so identical in intensity of expression, that Lady Aberdeen’s efforts on her behalf had been in vain.

It was too late for choices. They were already her men. And she was their woman.

After delivering Colin and Atticus a stern warning not to debauch Lady Grace in her absence, Lady Aberdeen—or Abby as they had always called her—left the room, closing the door behind her.

Atticus smiled at the lovely, final sound of the solid, heavy oak thudding against the door frame.

Of course, Abby had to know that her charge was in very grave danger of being thoroughly debauched, but she also trusted that neither Colin nor Atticus would directly disobey her. Which meant they would, at a minimum, avoid relieving their beloved of her virginity. Anything short of that, however, was fair game, provided Grace agreed.

And judging by the soft, hungry look in her eyes, she would agree to just about anything. That expression turned Atticus’s mind to dark, dirty thoughts—thoughts of every delicious, decadent pleasure they would teach their redheaded goddess to give and to receive.

Lust flared to life, weighing thick and heavy in his loins, and at the most inopportune moment possible. He and Colin both needed to keep their heads—the ones they used for thinking, at any rate—long enough to explain to her who they were…and why. They owed her that much.

To allay his arousal, he thought of Latin. There was nothing quite so effective for snuffing desire as declining nouns.

Except the Latin word that first popped into his mind was not a noun, but a verb.

Amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis, amant.

No help, that.

He tried to think of other, less arousing words. The ones that came were no better. Verbs like
capere
and
osculare
and
futuere
. To take, to kiss, to fuck. Nouns like
os
,
mentula
,
cunnus
—mouth, cock, cunt.

Fortunately, Colin saved him by dousing him in a substance more effective than either Latin or cold water ever could be—history.

Their
history.

“Atticus told you when last we parted that we would explain our past. How we came to be the men we are. That is, if you wish to know.”

God, Atticus needed to hear no more than that to be drained of his burgeoning desire.

The memories were vivid and brutal, even at nearly twenty years’ distance. Their mothers weeping in terror while Colin’s father pleaded for their lives. His own father shoving them from the carriage into the brambles beside the road and telling them to run into the woods, to never look back no matter what they heard. The horrifying crack of gunshots and the acrid scent of gunpowder. And overhead as they ran, the denuded branches of trees reaching down toward two frightened, newly orphaned boys like the claws of hungry beasts.

“Of course, I wish to know.”

“Then you are still considering our proposal?” Colin pursued, folding his lanky frame into the settee next to her, his knees nearly touching hers.

Grace worried her lower lip with her front teeth before saying, “I believe I am doing rather more than considering.”

Elation and triumph rushed through Atticus’s veins, reducing if not eliminating the pain of discussing the past. He had been right. Lady Grace Hannington was their perfect mate, a lady strong enough to disregard the dictates of society in favor of her own happiness.

Colin’s sober expression didn’t alter, but Atticus could see the glint of impending victory in his best friend’s eyes. But then, he knew Colin’s thoughts and emotions as well as his own. As if they
were
his own. And so, when Colin’s eyes met his, he knew his friend meant for him to sit down and assist him in the telling of their story.

A story they’d never fully shared with anyone save Abby, who as Colin’s only living relative had taken them in after they’d been found, wet, cold and on the brink of starvation, in the wilds of Derbyshire. And he doubted even Abby fully comprehended what had happened to them during that lonely, terrifying week.

When Atticus was seated, Colin began, “Atticus and I grew up together. His father was my father’s land steward and most trusted servant. Since we are only a few months apart in age, it was natural that we would play together despite the differences in our social standing.” Colin took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. “When I was ten and Atticus eleven, our fathers grew suspicious of the estate manager at one of our lesser properties and decided to travel there unannounced. En route, our coach was attacked by a band of highwaymen.” His voice faltered.

Atticus took over even though speaking the words scraped his throat like a sharpened scythe. “The highwaymen dragged Lord Fitzgerald from the coach and demanded he hand over all our money and valuables. The next thing we knew, he was begging for our lives. My father, perhaps guessing Lord Fitzgerald would not succeed, opened the door on the opposite side of the carriage and shoved both Colin and me out, telling us to run and not look back.” That was as far as he could go.

He looked at Colin.
Your turn
.

But it was Grace who spoke. “So the two of you escaped and the rest of your families were murdered by the highwaymen?” Her lovely green eyes grew glassy with tears. “I can’t begin to imagine how awful that must have been for you.”

Colin’s mouth twisted in a grim imitation of a smile. “It got much worse. We did as Atticus’s father instructed and ran as far and fast as we could, even after we heard the gunshots. By the time we stopped running, we were lost. The woods were huge and every tree looked the same. It was a week before we were found by hunters, and by then, we were so damp, bedraggled, and close to starvation that no one believed we could be who we claimed.

“It was several more days before the truth of our story was verified, and we were reunited with what family we had left. By then, our parents were dead and buried.”

Grace’s hands flew to her mouth as Colin recounted, without really describing it, this element of their ordeal. Endless days of suffering, of cold and hunger and a thousand minor injuries as they had wandered in a vain search for a hut, a rut, or a road…of any sign of civilization. Days during which the only thing keeping them alive was the burning determination not to let the other die.

The days when they had become one person in two bodies.

Slowly, her gaze shifted from Colin to Atticus. “I believe I understand now.”

Colin leaned closer to her. “What is it that you understand, darling?”

Her cheeks flushed. “That the two of you came to depend upon each other in a profound and…unusual way. And that after what you have been through together, to be separated in anything must be akin to a form of torture.”

Colin cupped her cheek in his palm. “You do understand. Few people would.”

“Then they are severely lacking in imagination,” Grace retorted, indignation tingeing her tone with an edge of bitterness. “Two children, orphaned and alone for days on end… Surely if people knew your history, they would not be so quick to judge.”

Atticus grimaced. “The ton is always quick to judge, my love. Especially when sex is involved.”

Colin grinned, rubbing his thumb up along Grace’s cheekbone and back to trace the curve of her neck beneath her ear. “And unless you tell us otherwise, sex is going to be very much involved.”

Gooseflesh, along with a primal rush of desire, followed the path of Colin’s thumb along Grace’s neck. She shivered, unable to suppress the tremor of longing his touch invoked.

She had waited so long, it seemed, for him to touch her again. The only thing in life she had waited for longer was for Atticus to do the same.

As if he read her mind, Atticus stood and crossed the few feet of gold-and-ivory rug that separated his chair from hers. He knelt at her feet and took her hands in his.

“Have you made your decision?” he asked softly as Colin’s fingers slipped around the nape of her neck, kneading the muscles until she was lazy and languid with pleasure.

It seemed impossible that she would say anything but yes, and yet…if she chose them now, there would be no going back, no thinking better of it in the morning. She would be committed to this peculiar partnership—
was
it a partnership if three parties were involved?—and its consequences would be irreversible.

Colin’s breath feathered the bare skin of her shoulder, sweet and lovely as a caress. “I know we are asking a great deal of you, darling, perhaps more than is reasonable. Especially when you have so little experience upon which to base your decision.” His eyes searched hers, their blue depths sharp and knowing. “Had you even been kissed before the other night?”

A part of her wanted to exclaim indignantly that of course she had been kissed before; did they really think her so undesirable that no man before them had found her attractive enough to kiss? But in the end, the sympathetic force of his gaze loosened the knot of tension in her stomach and convinced her of the wisdom of being truthful.

She shook her head. “Not…like that.”

“Like what?” Colin prodded.

The memory of those kisses flooded back to her. Of Atticus’s mouth, sweet and coaxing. Of Colin’s, fierce and demanding. “Not so that my knees went wobbly and my head went soft and my insides went to warm pudding and…oh!”

The surprised breath escaped her as Colin’s mouth swooped down on hers. Laden with all the intensity she expected from him, the kiss was also laced with a tenderness that loosened the muscles and ligaments and tendons holding her very bones together. She seemed poised to float apart, and indeed, she thought she
was
floating apart until she realized it was not her flesh leaving her body but her gown.

Atticus stood behind her, his fingers unfastening the eyehooks securing her bodice with practiced ease. The neckline gaped open above her breasts, allowing Colin to slide his palm back and forth over one nipple, then the other. She pressed her knees tight together to staunch the deluge of hot, thick sensation, for desire had not yet obliterated reason, and reason reminded her she still sat in Lady Aberdeen’s main sitting room and the countess herself could walk in at any moment.

With no small effort and great regret, Grace broke the kiss and voiced her meek protest. “B-but, you promised Lady Aberdeen you would not debauch me.”

“And I assure you, sweetheart, ’tis not debauchery we have in mind,” Atticus said from behind her. He did not falter in his quest to disrobe her, his fingers releasing the laces of her stays.

“No indeed,” Colin confirmed with a laugh. “The other night in the retiring room…that was debauchery. This, my darling, will be nothing short of depravity.”

Grace’s pulse leapt in her throat like a frightened bird beating against a windowpane even as the ache between her thighs deepened at the mystery of what pleasures might lie between
debauchery and depravity. Fear warred with desire. Not fear of the unknown, but fear of the very real possibility that they might not only strip her of her clothes and her innocence, but of the one thing she must retain—her freedom to choose. And yet, she could not choose without the education they would give her.

“You mustn’t…that is, I know so little of what passes between a man and a woman, let alone what may pass between two men and a woman. And I want to know more, I want you to show me more, but I must leave here a…a…” She stammered, choking on the last word. It seemed ridiculous to insist she remain a virgin now, because when Colin pulled her to her feet, she did nothing to resist, indeed did not wish to resist. And when the buttercup silk, no match for gravity, sagged to the floor, she did not for so much as a heartbeat regret its desertion.

Colin rested his palm on the curve of her hip and brushed a stray curl from her forehead with the other hand. “Don’t worry, darling. We promised you a choice, and we don’t mean to take it from you this afternoon. Will you trust us to do nothing that would limit your options?”

The anxiety in her chest loosened. She looked up at Colin’s hard yet handsome face and nodded. “I trust you.” Then she looked over her shoulder at Atticus, whose skin stretched taut over the planes of his normally good-natured face. He had stopped undressing her, she realized. As if he feared she might say no. “And you.”

Atticus’s features relaxed and he smiled mischievously. “Then let’s get you naked as the good Lord intended.”

“Oh, yes, please,” she whispered. There was nothing, she realized, that she wanted more than to have nothing between her and them. Whether the good Lord or anyone else would approve or not. “And you, too.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Colin said, wagging his eyebrows.

And so, as Atticus finished stripping her of her petticoat and chemise, she watched Colin make short work of his own clothes. He removed his cravat first, unwinding the crisp, white linen and draping it across the arm of the chair.

A white flag, not of surrender, but of conquest.

His coat, waistcoat, and shirt followed in swift succession, revealing lean but defined arms and shoulders and a broad expanse of chest dusted with a few whorls of dark hair. What she waited for with the greatest anticipation, however, lay beneath his breeches, and to get to it, he had to sit down to remove his shoes and stockings.

What would it be like, that rigid, cylindrical male appendage? How would it feel to touch it? Would it be rough or smooth? And would he allow her to taste it, as he had tasted her female flesh?

She was so engrossed in her imaginings that she didn’t notice the last of her clothing slip to the floor until Atticus embraced her from behind. His wool coat and breeches scraped her skin, coarse yet pleasant. He did nothing to interrupt her enjoyment of the spectacle of Colin’s disrobement, but multiplied the lust racing through her veins by rolling one nipple between his thumb and forefingers while the other hand slipped down along her abdomen and delved between her thighs.

“Oh, Grace,” he muttered thickly against her neck, “already you’re wet and ready. You’re terribly curious, aren’t you?”

Grace swayed against him. She couldn’t help it. His voice drew her like a chimney drew smoke. “Yes.”

He feathered his fingers over her nether lips, grazing but not quite touching the spot that was swollen and throbbing with need. “You’re not afraid?”

She shook her head. How could she be when every fiber in her body hummed with longing for more?

Colin removed his last stocking, then stood and shucked his breeches. When he straightened,
it
came into view.

Grace stared in pure fascination.
It
sprang from a nest of dark hair at the apex of his thighs.
It
didn’t look anything like she had imagined, but then, she’d never tried particularly hard.

But if she had ever before given much thought to what a man’s shaft would look like, she would not have envisaged such a lovely, elegant thing. A bit like a club, perhaps, in shape and even size, but any resemblance to a weapon was diminished by the velvety skin covering it and by the tiny drop of fluid that leaked, like a tear, from the slit at the head.

“Do you like what you see, my lady?” Colin asked, his expression somber but his voice ripe with mischief.

“Very much.”

“Would you like to do more than look?”

She nodded, her throat dry at the prospect of touching Colin there, like this, skin to skin. No barriers. No retreat.

“Then come here.”

Atticus released her, whispering, “I’ll join the two of you shortly.”

Colin, for his part, lay down on his back on the settee and beckoned her. She started to kneel beside him, thinking to take that part of him in her hand, but he shook his head.

“I’ve a better idea.” He turned her so that her back was to his face. “Climb aboard, darling.”

Her brow wrinkled in confusion, for she wasn’t sure what he had in mind, but she did as he told her, straddling his chest. Once there, however, she decided the position was rather inspired, for she had a lovely view of the ridges of his abdomen and the jutting appendage she ached to investigate was easily in reach.

“Uh uh uh,” he cautioned as she reached out to stroke him. “Before you begin your exploration of me, scoot that lovely arse up here and straddle my face so I can return the favor.”

Grace’s eyes widened. “Oh,” she breathed.

Oh yes, this was debauched. Even depraved. But the pulse between her legs throbbed as she remembered what it had felt like when he had touched her there before with his mouth. It had been pure decadence and wondrous bliss.

After a few awkward adjustments of position, Grace found she could rest her knees on either side of his shoulders without crushing him.

“Perfect,” he murmured, his hot breath tickling the tender flesh of her inner thighs.

Her muscles clenched in anticipation of his next touch, but he seemed content to do nothing more incendiary than knead the muscles of her legs, beginning with her calves.

“Go on and touch my cock now, darling,” he said. “It is eager to make your acquaintance. I won’t interrupt your introduction until you’re ready.”

Encouraged, Grace braced herself on one elbow and studied the object of her fascination from her improved vantage. From a distance, she’d thought the surface smooth, but up close, she could see the veins that bulged just beneath the skin. The hard inner core seemed to strain against its confinement, and she wondered how he bore it. With one finger, she traced the length, from the velvety tip to the solid base, and the shaft jerked in response. He sucked his breath between his teeth.

“Did I hurt you?” she asked, alarmed. He seemed all but ready to explode.

“No, please continue. Just—“He let out a gruff, self-deprecating laugh. “Just be quick about it. I’m not sure how long I can last.”

Quick? Last?
She wasn’t sure what that meant, but she took his enjoinder to continue as sanction to wrap her palm around the shaft. The weight and girth felt good and right in her hand, and the place between her legs pulsed with need. As wonderful as it was to hold him in her hand, it would be even better to hold him
there
. To feel him in that hollow, empty place inside her.

He grunted with pleasure, then raised and lowered his hips, causing her fist to pump him. “Ah yes, like that,” he muttered when she caught and maintained the rhythm he set.

Another drop of clear fluid appeared on the tip. Curious, Grace ran her thumb through it. The consistency reminded her of sugar water, only more slippery, but the scent rising from his body was more salt than sweet, darker and more elemental. More rose from the slit and began a slow descent along the underside of the head.

She lowered her mouth and lapped up the droplet. He tasted of salt and sea, just as he should. Wild and relentless and more than a little dangerous, yet somehow inviting and even soothing.

“That’s the way, sweetheart.” Atticus’s voice near her ear made her jump. She turned to look and found he was as nude as she and Colin—and his cock just as hard and impressive as the one she held firmly within her grasp.

For the first time, genuine apprehension about what would pass between them gripped her. Until this moment, she had simply assumed they knew what they were doing, and that she could somehow please them both. But faced with the prospect of two equally lovely cocks—each obviously desiring her attentions—she had no idea how she could possibly manage this. Another woman, perhaps, could do it. But clumsy, inept, hopelessly awkward Grace Hannington, who could scarcely walk from one side of a room to the other without doing bodily harm either to herself or an innocent bystander?

Oh, God, what foolishness. What greed, to imagine she could have twice what other women did.

“I—I don’t think I can do this,” she whispered, her cheeks flaming hot as the sheer depravity of what she was doing washed over her.

But then, they
had
promised her depravity.

“You’re already doing it, darling,” Colin murmured, his lips brushing across the folds of her sex as he spoke. “All you need do is what gives you pleasure. We’ll take care of the rest.”

“But—but both of you,” she sputtered. “How am I to…?”

Then she felt it—the slick tip of Atticus’s finger sliding down the cleft between her buttocks before he pressed it, gently but firmly, against a place so shocking, so incomprehensible that Grace froze in apprehension.

“Relax, love,” Atticus encouraged, but he needn’t have bothered, for at the same moment, Colin ceased his teasing brushes and licked her throbbing, hungry flesh with deep, assertive strokes. Bone-melting pleasure radiated from her core, loosening her muscles and allowing the digit to slip inside her.

“Oh!” Grace jumped and shuddered at the invasion, but after a brief stinging sensation, the only thing she felt was a fullness that was at once biting and beautiful.

Atticus pushed deeper at this obvious encouragement. After burying the finger to the hilt within her, he withdrew and repeated the motion, thrusting in and out while Colin continued his assault with his tongue.

“Oh God,” she whimpered, twisting her hips in time with their movements, “this can’t be right.”

“Remember what I told you other night, sweetheart?” Atticus asked, his tone gentle as he worked another finger in alongside the first.

“There is no shame in pleasure,” she gasped, “and no pleasure in shame.”

“That’s right,” he murmured. “There is nothing wrong with enjoying arse play or anything else that feels good, no matter how wicked it may seem. And now, I believe my friend’s cock is rather lonely without your attention.”